


Bleeding Out

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Songfic, Swearing, honestly just a good song tbh thats all u gotta know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-08-19 22:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: it's a good song so of course a mediocre story came out of it





	1. Bleeding Out

**I'm bleeding out**

**So if the last thing that I do**

**Is bring you down**

**I'll bleed out for you**

 

Things were never supposed to get this out of hand. Roman always swore on his life that his room couldn’t do any real harm if he didn’t let it. Accordingly, it seemed as if it would be perfectly safe to bring in one of the other sides on an adventure that required a bit more work than one person could provide, even a powerhouse such as Roman. His offer to take a buddy on this quest was an unexpected one, but accepted nonetheless. The fact that Virgil was the one to take it on, however, was quite the surprise to all sides involved. As the pair cracked open the prince’s door to the faraway place beyond, everything seemed full of hope and wonder, from the shining sun to the quaint village.

For now.

“Oh it’s terrible, just terrible!” a townsperson wails, clawing at Roman’s sleeve. “Those awful gangs have ravaged our lands again! Our crops have been razed, our stores ransacked, our livelihoods ruined! You have to help us, please!”   
“Never fear, my good friend,” Roman replies, taking up a self-important stance. Virgil rolls his eyes at the theatrics. “We shall return peace to your village, and bring those dirty heathens to justice, or my name isn’t Roman Sanders!” Virgil refrains from mention that his surname wasn’t technically given, so much as borrowed from Thomas. Ignorant to Virgil’s smirk at the overzealousness, Roman marches through the town, making sure to speak to every citizen and comfort them in their time of pain. For all that the others make fun of him, Roman really knows how to be sympathetic to those he’s trying to help. From the crankiest old man at the far end of town to the little toddlers hiding behind their mother’s skirts, everyone brightens up at the sight of their benevolent prince, come to save the day.

With each new villager, the details vary a bit, but the general issue tends to remain the same—a gang of people destroying the town and knocking out anyone in their way. Standard procedure in one of Roman’s adventures, as far as Virgil knows, but the smaller inconsistencies are what worry him. In some minds, the gang is actually one person with a vengeance, while others think that it’s a pack of criminals looking for a fight. Sometimes the gang is traveling on foot, other times it uses otherworldly monsters to move and destroy. As Roman is the one in control, it should probably be fine regardless. His room is just part of the amalgamation of Thomas, right? So everything should be perfectly harmless.

“All that’s needed now is a formal invitation from the mayor of this fine land,” Roman says, taking Virgil by the sleeve-covered wrist and leading him to a building nearly identical to every other one they’d passed thus far. “She doesn’t like to think of herself as higher than everyone else, so she insists on having the same amenities as her villagers.” Inside of said identical house waits a heavyset woman in a beautiful flowing dress, with only bracelets for jewelry. She welcomes Roman with an embrace, followed by a nod to Virgil—Roman had spoken with her in the past about how to approach him as a stranger.

“Nice to meet you, Virgil, I take it?” At his nod, she continues, “My name’s Lena, and I’m sure you’ve heard the rundown from everyone outside already. Roman, standard procedure, just see if you can find these guys and stop them. We’d appreciate it greatly, as always.” Roman nods with a grin before backing out the door, waving to Lena. Virgil gives her a small smile as well, following his friend.

“So, there’s a great lake blocking the village in to the south and to the east, as well as endless plains to the north, which means these people probably headed west, where the mountains begin.” Roman points in each direction as they head out of the town, already equipped with a sword. “The mountains are gonna be a little tough, what with the coldness and all the caves they could hide in, but I’m sure we can handle it. That’s why I brought you along, after all. Can’t expect me to do all this searching alone, can you?” Virgil shrugs, still unsure why he volunteered to go on this adventure. Either way, he’s grateful when Roman conjures an extra set of warm clothes to carry.

“I don’t expect it to be too chilly,” the prince continues, “but better safe than sorry. I could probably figure out a way to neutralize the sensation of cold, except I haven’t really tried before, and it’s not like we’ve got the time for it now.” Honestly, Virgil probably already knows this, and doesn’t really need elaboration, but Roman doesn’t care. He’s never gotten to take someone else with him on a quest, so his natural instinct is to fill the air with conversation. At the very least, Virgil isn’t protesting it, either. He even offers a few clever retorts, spurring Roman’s enthusiasm on the way to the distant grey mountains.

 

**So I bare my skin**

**And I count my sins**

**And I close my eyes**

**And I take it in**

**I'm bleeding out**

**I'm bleeding out for you, for you.**

 

“Gloves?” Roman offers, letting one boot-clad foot sink into snow. Virgil takes the offered garment, slipping the purple knit material over his shaking fingers. With hats and scarves already donned, there’s not much more left to increase warmth, but Roman insists that this is how to get the full experience of the adventure, by letting the senses get the most realistic effect. Virgil thinks Roman had one too many second cookies from Patton this morning.

“I still don’t see why you needed a partner on this quest. You’ve never needed one before.” Virgil burrows his nose deeper into a striped scarf, his words coming out muffled.

“Because I knew that the villains in question this time were in mountains, and it’s always best to take a buddy on mountain trips, just in case something happens where one of us needs assistance due to complications from the adventure. If someone were to be trapped alone in the cold, I can’t imagine it would end well.”

“Yeah, I got that, but why haven’t you brought someone before? Is this really the first time you’ve gone into mountains?”

Roman exhales slowly, watching his breath curl and drift into the sky like a distress signal. “More that it’s a rare location, and we were never that close before. You guys never really saw my quests as legitimate things until that time with the dragon witch.” He rubs his shoulder, where a scar still resides.

Virgil gives a hum to acknowledge Roman’s explanation, while also not knowing how to respond to it. He looks like an angry marshmallow with all the layers he’s covered in, but Roman isn’t about to tell him so, not after he’s finally making progress in the pair growing closer. Plus, when someone agrees to go on a potentially dangerous quest with you, calling them a gelatin treat isn’t usually the best way to assure that they remain on the potentially dangerous quest.

They continue in silence for a while, sometimes veering off track to peer inside of caves set in the mountain, all of which are dead ends. Only a few feet deep, useful for the sheer purpose of a brief respite from the relentless cold. That’s not to say they don’t utilize them—in fact, they stop several times to watch the snow fall and catch their breaths, seeing the wind dust over their snowy footprints. Like it doesn’t want them to be found. As soon as Virgil voices as much each time, Roman smiles bigger before taking off, determined to not let a sour thought interrupt the adventure.

“So anyway, once we find these jerks, I’m not sure what the exact plan is.” Virgil glares daggers at Roman for this, but the prince continues unperturbed. “I can’t prepare a scheme in advance given the inconsistent stories from the townspeople, but the general idea will be that you remain out of sight, while I go in with my sword. If they don’t attack me, I’ll try to work it out peacefully, but if they appear trigger happy, fists are going to fly.” Roman pats the scabbard of his sword reassuringly, half-checking to make sure it’s still there. Of course, he can always conjure more if need be, but what’s the fun in that? None of the greatest adventurers in those books Thomas loves had that sort of ability on their side, so Roman tries to avoid it as well.

“It’s so freaking cold,” Virgil mutters a short while later.

“Maybe if you’d wear more layers on your legs, that wouldn’t be a problem,” Roman replies, looking pointedly at his companion’s black skinny jeans. “If you could just let me conjure some sweats or snow pants or something, even flannels—”

“Absolutely not, my legs look great in these,” Virgil hisses. Roman raises his hands in surrender, not denying the statement. “How much longer?”

“You know as well as I do that the whole point of this expedition is finding them, and that we don’t know the exact location.” Virgil scowls, pulling his hat lower over his ears and straightening his hood over it.

“It’s practically been days, what if they aren’t up here?”

“It’s been hours at best, and because of the landscape. No self-respecting gang member would risk being caught by hanging out in an open plain, and regardless of the size, there’s no way they could mobilize themselves across a lake as big as the one behind us.” Roman feels a twinge of pride at being able to explain something so close to him as his quests, wondering if this is how Logan gets to feel when he uses longer words that don’t make sense. Maybe the feeling of cleverness is what makes him do it so much. Virgil isn’t calling any of this stupid, which is immensely helpful as well—Roman doesn’t know what he’d do if someone were to be critical of this crucial part of his life. Luckily, Virgil seems to be cognizant of this, and makes no snide remarks at it. Needless to say, Roman is relieved.

 

**When the day has come**

**That I've lost my way around**

**And the seasons stop and hide beneath the ground**

 

“Our footprints are vanishing,” Virgil comments, looking back at the undisturbed white snow. Indeed, the wind has covered all of their tracks. For all they know, they haven’t gotten twenty feet into the mountains, and the only proof that this is not the case resides in the village in the distance, far too small to be that close. Roman glances back as well, more to admire the land from afar than to check for footprints. The sprawling yellow fields, the glistening blue water, the replica houses dotting the roads. In front of them is only white powder everywhere, eating up anything else in sight. Roman begins to worry as they go deeper into the mountains, the scenery vanishing behind them. They really should have found the gang by now, or at least a sign that they’d been through here. His ears grow numb as he grows desperate, trying not to let it show for Virgil’s sake.

Roman is the prince, he’s supposed to be better than this. Even now, they’ve been walking long enough that he can’t say for certain which way the village is. The sun is beaming, forcing his eyes to squint, but that’s hardly an indication of anything. For all he knows, they’ve gotten turned around and are heading in the complete wrong direction. Princes aren’t supposed to get lost. Princes are supposed to protect their companions. Princes are supposed to help. Princes aren’t supposed to march their friends into frozen oblivion.

_ Okay, _ Roman tells himself,  _ if we don’t see a sign of them in one hundred paces, we turn around. _

_ Ten. _

__ More grey mountains.

_ Twenty. _

__ A sniffle and shiver from Virgil.

_ Thirty. _

__ Roman’s foot catches dangerously on a patch of ice.

_ Forty. _

__ Virgil nearly goes down.

_ Fifty. _

__ Roman can’t feel his extremities.

_ Sixty. _

__ Now is not the time to lose hope.

_ Seventy. _

__ But he may not have a choice.

_ Eighty. _

__ Roman begins to panic.

At eighty seven paces, Virgil raises a trembling hand to point off in the distance.

“Look, smoke!” Indeed, smoke is billowing in the air maybe thirty feet ahead of them, a definite indication of someone’s presence. Be it friend or foe, the most important thing now is to track down the source of the smoke. With a renewed sense of purpose, Roman picks up the pace, as does Virgil, the pair tromping through the snow and ignoring the feeling of the cold seeping through their shoes. Too soon, while also not soon enough, they arrive at a small hill, the last obstacle blocking the site. Roman bites his lip to stop himself from pointing out to Virgil that this, this was why he needed a companion, to push him through the harder moments that he couldn’t surpass himself. If they didn’t need to be quiet right now, Roman would explain it all, how he never truly liked being alone on these quests, how arduous they were alone, how grateful he was that Virgil didn’t reject the invitation. He’ll tell him later, when it’s safe.

Roman points at the ground, an indication for Virgil to remain under cover while Roman moves forward to investigate, but Virgil shakes his head. No way in hell is he letting Princey get hurt if he can prevent it. To be fair, that’s the reaction Roman had the first time someone told him to hang back. Begrudgingly, Roman lifts his eyes to the sky for a moment before nodding, holding out a hand to help Virgil forward. He takes it.

Around the small hill is a gently roaring fire, watched by one person with only the minimum layers on that could prevent freezing to death. They don’t even shift their gaze at the boys’ approach, staring deep into the flames. At their feet rests a small bag zipped shut, a match to several other bags surrounding the fire. This person obviously isn’t alone, or else they went to a lot of trouble to make it seem that way.

“Hey, are you—” Roman begins, a hand on his sword, but the person doesn’t give him a chance to finish, already on their feet with a larger blade in hand. Roman whips out his own, brandishing it in front of himself and shifting to cover Virgil. “I hope this is fun for you, because I’ve been itching to fight for a while now.”

The person grins, widening into a defensive stance. When they speak, their voice is rough from disuse. “ _ You’re  _ the wimp they sent after us? Pathetic.” They shift forward, pulling back the arm holding the sword as a wind up before launching themselves at Roman, the blade flying. He blocks it swiftly, stopping their blade with his own as sparks fly out to the side. Virgil raises his fists, knowing full well that they won’t hold up against a sword, but not caring either. Roman forces his sword up and out, throwing the attacker off. “Oh, a feisty one? How exciting.” The person taunts him, circling around the backside of the fire and letting the tip of their blade drag over the snow. Roman and Virgil duck as a chunk of coal is kicked from the fire at their heads, and all hell breaks loose. Swords and sparks are flying everywhere, melting the snow and burning holes in the bags around the fire. Virgil hangs back, ready to jump in at any moment, while also realizing that interfering could easily do more harm than good for Roman.

As Roman gets that trademark self-important smile on his face, success assured, he messes up. A misstep. A trip. A failure to block. He sees the assailant weave away, out of his range of attack. Closer to Virgil. Roman whips his head back to check on his companion, terrified for his safety. An accident. An error. A condemnation.

The attacker sees.

And smiles.

And runs for Virgil, sword drawn.

Roman throws himself across the fire into the line of attack, in between Virgil and this monster. His sword is swinging forward, desperate to block, trying to protect, and it’s almost enough. Almost.

The attacker is quicker.

Their sword slices through the air, almost reaching Virgil. Almost.

Roman arrives in the nick of time, his sword held out and his face furious, sweat dripping and freezing under his layers, torn and shredded from the fight.

Another sword slices forward. Not his. Aimed at Virgil’s heart. Interrupted by Roman’s body. A blade protruding from his stomach. Roman falls. The attacker laughs. Roman drops his sword.

Virgil picks it back up, rightly pissed. The foe laughs harder. Virgil stabs the sword clean through their skull. They go down.

Roman does not get back up.

 

**When the sky turns gray**

**And everything is screaming**

**I will reach inside**

**Just to find my heart is beating**

 

Roman watches the clouds soaring overhead, dotting over the pale blue sky as the sun sinks. Something is yelling, a vague shout that barely reaches his ears. His mind isn’t racing—rather, it’s puttering along like a snail, turning over each individual thought carefully before gently moving on to the next. Something about a village, a lake, snow, a fight, and Virgil. Roman blinks, watching the sky turn more grey with the dying sun. Whatever that yelling is, it’s incredibly loud, while also almost dull to his ears. Just another sound. Briefly, Roman registers something painful in his core, but he’s more focused on the cold down there, almost like someone poured water over him to let it freeze on his bare stomach. Another voice yells, his own, but inwardly, begging him to focus, to listen, to pay attention. He blinks a few more times, preferring to remain in this dreamlike state, where he doesn’t have to think about why, exactly, he’s in pain, or why the sky is fading away. The voice grows more insistent, pleading and angry and desperate. With no small amount of resignation, Roman gives in.

“—it you jerk, you said we couldn’t get hurt in here!” Virgil’s voice finally breaks through the fog. “You swore we’d be fine and you fucking  _ lied _ and I don’t know what to do so could you just  _ answer  _ me?” Roman groans a little, lifting a hand in the air. Something warm engulfs it, squeezing tightly. “Roman, thank God, can you get up? I need to get you back to the village, someone there can help, I’m sure of it.” The words go in one ear and out the other as Roman settles his other hand on his stomach, something cold protruding out of it. “I know I’m not supposed to take it out since that just makes the bleeding worse but I don’t know if I can get you back to the village in time for them to help you—” Virgil is babbling, panicking more by the second. Roman grabs feebly at his red sash, wrapped around his outermost coat. Virgil seizes it like a lifeline, desperately wrapping Roman’s wound with it to staunch the flow. With some kind of strength that neither knew he had, Virgil gets Roman onto his back, stumbling back the way they came, to the village in the distance. He continues muttering to himself about how this was supposed to be safe, he wasn’t supposed to be able to get hurt, but it’s too quiet for Roman to register as his mind floats away, unconcerned with the folly of two boys on a cold mountain path. The only thing anchoring him is the soft beating of a drum, rare and small, but still present, still there. He vaguely registers it as his pulsing heart, but not enough to worry about it. Not enough to fear how rapidly it slows. Roman considers the sky above them, its greying color twin to that of the snow below them. He never realized how quickly Virgil could move when he needed to. He wondered if it would be quick enough. He hoped that Virgil wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of Roman not making it. He imagined that would be far worse than what Roman was going through himself. Virgil runs faster.

 

**Oh, you tell me to hold on**

**Oh, you tell me to hold on**

**But innocence is gone**

**And what was right is wrong**

 

“Please stay with me Roman, we’re almost there, I promise,” Virgil says, his legs trembling beneath him. Even with the adrenaline of the moment, he knows he can’t hold out forever, carrying Roman like this, but at least the village is in sight. That mayor, Lena or whoever, surely she’s seen this before, surely she’ll know what to do. Roman has grown limp on Virgil’s back. Virgil runs faster.

He begins bargaining with the prince, offering anything he can think of if Roman would just stay awake. His headphones, a positive outlook, more help in the future, less snarky comments, his sick nasty Tim Burton poster, anything if Roman can just hold on.

Roman’s breathing slows.

Virgil runs faster.

Nowhere near soon enough for Virgil’s liking, he begins the final descent down the mountain, his tracks remaining visible in the thinning snow as the village looms ahead. Virgil runs faster. His feet pound into snow, then dirt, then pavement, not as fast as his heart. The prim houses grow as he gets closer, Roman too limp for his liking.

“Someone help!” Virgil calls desperately into the streets. He wobbles on unstable legs, searching for anyone. The whole town appears abandoned. Roman is silent.

Virgil stumbles his way to the mayor’s house, or the one he assumes to be it, given the similarity of every goddamn building in this town. Nailed to the front door is a piece of paper in curly script, fluttering gently in the wind. Virgil grows more hopeless as he reads it.

_ Welcome back, Roman and Virgil! _

__ _ We’re so glad you could help with our situation, but it would appear some of the gang members returned to do more damage. Accordingly, we have fled over the plains to avoid them, but there is a handsome sum waiting in the town hall for you. _

__ _ Thanks again! Sincerely, Lena and the townspeople. _

__ Virgil tears the letter from the door and crushes it under his feet, watching the ink bleed to the edges from the snow under his boot. With two well-placed kicks, he breaks the lock and forces the door open, depositing Roman on a table by the entrance. The sun disappears under the horizon outside, taking with it the warmth of day. Virgil slams the door shut and collapses into a chair by Roman. What he wouldn’t give for telepathy among the sides. He pulls a phone from the pocket of his jeans, ready to send a text, but no dice—the freezing mountains drained his battery completely. Virgil slips a careful hand into Roman’s layers, feeling around for the prince’s phone. Nothing, nothing, nothing, something in his shirt pocket—the phone. Virgil yanks it out, his thumbprint bypassing the lock easily—the sides were all from the same person, why even bother having a passcode? He shoots off a message to Logan and Patton, pleading for them to get to Roman’s room immediately. Virgil doesn’t even know if this will work, as no one has ever been to Roman’s room for an adventure besides him, and for all he knew Roman had to be present to get the sides to the quest. For all Virgil knew, Logan and Patton would open a door to an empty room and assume a joke had been played, laughing off Virgil’s fear. He sends another message, just in case.

Roman doesn’t move.

 

**When the hour is nigh**

**And hopelessness is sinking in**

**And the wolves all cry**

**To fill the night with hollering** ****  
  


Virgil watches the moon lift into the sky, bathing the houses outside in a white glow. No response from the other two sides, but the message says delivered. He can only hope at this point. Virgil props his elbow up on the table beside Roman to rest his chin on his fist, fighting to stay awake, to not let Roman slip away from him. He clasps the prince’s hand tightly, feeling the warmth leaking out of it by the second. Outside, noises clatter, echoing through the empty streets and amplifying Virgil’s fear. That stupid note, telling him that the gang returned, was really not what he needed to see. Their possible presence, maybe even in this house, is the only thing keeping Virgil from flicking the lights on, from starting a fire or a candle or something, lest it give the pair away. Raucous laughter burns his ears, swelling and diminishing as dark figures pass the house, never pausing to investigate the shadows camped out inside. Virgil’s heart sinks as tears leak from his eyes, dripping down his cheeks and making their intertwined hands ever colder.

Something looms outside the window, its presence foreboding and worrying Virgil that much more. He crouches under the table, praying that his shadow will look like nothing more than an abandoned bag, that Roman’s prone form will just look like decorations, something that can be ignored instead of attacked. The shape outside gets closer, closer, too close, near enough to tap the window. Just as Virgil is about to pick Roman up and sneak further into the house, the form backs up from the window, moving calmly down the street. Virgil thanks his lucky stars in the sky outside.

Roman stirs.

 

**When your eyes are red**

**And emptiness is all you know**

**With the darkness fed**

**I will be your scarecrow**

 

“Roman, oh my God, you’re awake, talk to me, please,” Virgil begs, crushing the prince’s hand in his grip. Roman gives a slight cough, wincing as he rests a hand where the blade protrudes.

“Virgil,” he gasps, his voice torn and ragged.

“I’m right here, come on, Roman.” Water drips down Virgil’s face, splashing onto Roman. Why couldn’t this be like that dumb scene in Tangled, where his emotions fixed his stupid friend? “You need to get through this, tell me how to get back to your room so we can get help.”

“Can’t,” Roman gets out, breathing heavily. His eyes crack open, sliding over to Virgil’s tearstained face and shining eyes, pink from crying.

“You can’t leave me alone here, how can I help you,  _ please _ ?” Virgil begs, taking Roman’s hand in both of his.

“Protect you,” Roman hisses. His voice grows softer.

“That’s not good enough!”

“Fight for you.”

“Roman, I swear I will beat you up when we get out of this stupid quest thing your room forced us into! How do I  _ help _ you?”

“Can’t,” Roman repeats, “can’t can’t can’t can’t.”

“If it takes me wringing your neck, you are going to tell me how to get us out of here,” Virgil pleads.

“Door.”  _ Door? What door? _ Three thoughts slam into Virgil at once—they came in through a door in a hill, the door is too far, and he might be too late. Virgil rattles off another text to the sides, worried at their continued absence, while preparing to heave Roman onto his back for the long journey.  _ They’ll never make it. _ He has to try.

Out the door and down the streets, Virgil races between shadows, cowering in fear when the slightest noise creeps up two roads away. Roman has fallen silent.  _ Almost there. _

 

**So I bare my skin**

**And I count my sins**

**And I close my eyes**

**And I take it in**

**And I'm bleeding out**

**I'm bleeding out for you, for you.**

 

Roman shudders as Virgil kicks the door in the grassy hill open. “Sorry, sorry!” Virgil squeaks, trying to stabilize himself so as not to disturb the prince. He sidesteps through the door, not bothering to close it behind him before depositing Roman on his neatly made bed. Logan and Patton launch themselves up from their chairs by the door, widening their eyes at the sight of Virgil appearing out of nowhere.

“We got your messages, but it was just his room—”

“We couldn’t find you and our texts weren’t going through—

“What can we do to help—” Logan and Patton trip over themselves in worry before fully understanding the severity of Roman’s situation. The sword disappeared with all the warm layers as Virgil passed through the door, leaving a critically injured Roman without anything to staunch the wound.

“Can we conjure something to help him?” Virgil pleads, still holding tightly to the prince’s hand. Patton looks at Logan, unsure of what to do. Logan lifts Roman’s limp wrist, checking the fluttery pulse. Nearly still.

“He’s a side, so he won’t actually die,” Logan begins, “but his physical form will be gone. Roman as we know him will be gone, but Thomas won’t just lose his creativity, it will just vanish into an aspect with the others.”

“That’s not good enough!” Virgil shouts. “Roman can’t just  _ go _ , we  _ need  _ him!”

“I’m afraid we can’t help him, though,” Logan says apologetically. “We aren’t human, so we can’t exactly get him to a hospital or a doctor or something.” Patton remains silent, his eyes welling up. Roman groans softly, squeezing Virgil’s hand lightly.

“Roman, please,” Virgil begs, as Logan and Patton come up behind him. “Stay here, just hold on. Please.” Roman’s grip softens, then completely goes, leaving a cold hand motionless under Virgil’s grasp. Roman shuts his eyes, and slowly vanishes from the bed, his hand a phantom in Virgil’s. Patton sobs. Logan looks at the floor. Virgil screams.


	2. Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sort of a spiritual continuation, but it's f i n e

Dark.

Dark and cold.

_ Get out. _

_ Get warm. _

_ Find light. _

He rises carefully, listening to each individual joint

Creak

And

Crack.

He stretches slowly, feeling his muscles

Shift

And

Settle.

Finally, he gets to his feet, or where he thinks they are.

_ Too dark to tell. _

_ Which way is up? _

He wanders for a few steps in each directions, arms out in front of him to feel for obstacles.

N

  O

      T

         H

              I

     N

         G

   .

He blinks hard, rubbing his eyes with balled fists. Still nothing. He wants to scream, but is almost afraid of shattering the silence. Still nothing. Finally, he choices a single direction to move towards, or what he assumes is. Too dark to tell if he changes his facing. Pace slowly. Walk quicker. Run faster. Sprinting. He pumps his arms in tandem with his legs, desperate to find a way out of the neverending darkness. A vague sting of pain registers, beginning at his very core and spreading outwards, through his legs to his knees and out his feet, through his torso to his shoulders down his arms past his elbows and streaming from his fingers. He wants to scream so badly, but something in him knows not to. He’s almost scared that nothing will come out. He pushes his legs, faster and faster, more and more terrified by the second as no light appears. No sound, no sight, he isn’t even sure if the air itself has a smell.

Something twinkles in the corner of his eye, too bright, too artificial, a trick of the light. Better than nothing. He turns toward where he thought it was, moving faster still. Why can’t he see anything?

He stops dead in his tracks.

Who  _ is  _ he?

This question, this one miniscule inquiry, sends his mind spinning. Why doesn’t he know who he is? How did he get here? How does he get out? Most importantly, is he meant to?

He runs faster.

He forces down the blooming flower of hope in his chest at every fake light source, knowing it’s just his mind playing tricks on him. Better to assume the worst than have false dreams be crushed.

He runs faster.

Something slips through his ears, some sound from some other time, some other place.

_ “Hold on.” _

__ _ “How do we get out of here?” _

__ What is he meant to hold on to?

How  _ does  _ he get out of here?

He wishes he knew.

Another something slips by, this one in front of his eyes.

A streak of purple.

A shock of blue.

A spot of black.

Warm black, not this terrible nothingness consuming him.

He runs faster.

_ Get out hold on get out hold on get out hold on get out hold out get on out hold on out get out hold get out on out get out. _

__ A face, twisted with worry.

The glint of something sharp. The word slips over his tongue, dripping over his teeth and down his throat before he remembers it.  _ Sword. Sword. Sword. _ He grasps onto the word like a lifeline.  _ Sword sword sword sword sword get out hold on sword get sword out. _

__ He runs faster.

Still just darkness.

A feeling, something more than numbness, traces his spine, scrapes over his back and wraps around his neck until he finds it.  _ Cold. Cold. Cold. _ Another lifeline, another mantra.  _ Cold cold cold sword sword get out hold on get sword out get cold hold on. _

__ He runs faster.

Something inside of him screams, but he doesn’t let it out. Too quiet, can’t break the silence. He wants to beg for help. He can’t. He needs to beg for answers.  _ Answer me. _ This one phrase strikes him down to his very soul, if he even has one.  _ Answer me. Answer me. Answer me. Get out cold sword hold on answer me. _

__ He runs faster.

Maybe he can fend off the darkness with the sword sword sword, find a way out. Somebody please help him. Fight for him.  _ Fight for you. Fight for you. Fight for you. Fight for you answer me get out cold sword hold on answer me fight for you. _

__ He runs faster.

The darkness seems to move, chasing him down, hunting him with a vengeance. No more words jump into his bones, no more phrases fling themselves through his skull. The inky black closes in, clawing at his clothes. His clothes. What is he wearing? A glance down reveals nothing. He is nothing. He is invisible. He cannot get back to where he’s supposed to be.  _ Get back. Get back. Get back.  _ Get back where?

He runs faster.

A voice in his head, picking at his ears and burrowing into his brain.  _ Stay with me 01010010 01101111 01101101 01100001 01101110. Stay with me  .-. --- -- .- -. Stay with me 52 6f 6d 61 6e. Stay with me stay with me stay with me. _

__ He runs faster.

_ Stay with me stay with who? Fight for you fight for who? Fight for me fight for you. Cold sword hold sword. Get out let out let me out get me out. Answer me answer who? Answer me answer you. Who? _

__ He runs faster.

He repeats the words in his head, holding onto his only tie with reality. Is that reality? What if this is reality? Who’s to say?  _ Who who who who who me you? _

__ He runs faster.

One more word, he begs this much of himself. One more thing to keep him from being alone. Even a letter. An abstract concept. Anything.  _ Purple. Purple. Purple. Purple swords in cold realities fight for who answer me fight for you stay with me stay with you. Purple purple purple. _

__ He runs faster.

The black seems to recede at the edge of his vision, tinting itself purple purple purple, but whenever he turns to watch, it turns black.  _ Purple purple purple. _

__ He stops running.

The purple creeps in from his peripheral, taking over the black, absorbing and consuming and swallowing until everything is violet, then brighter brighter brighter amethyst lilac lavender thistle white white white bright white too bright go back to purple purple purple.

He closes his eyes.

The world gets brighter brighter piercing his eyes through where his fingers are covering them, too much too much go back to purple go back to black go back—

He opens his eyes.

A warm room full of color.

Couches.

Blinds.

Stairs.

Three figures.

All hunched over.

Silent.

He takes a step forward.

The floorboards

C

         R

  E

         A

  K

         .

The figures turn.

They gasp.

One cries.

Another squints, disbelieving.

The last jumps up.

They encircle him.

He flinches.

They leap back.

One speaks up—the purple one.

“Roman?”


End file.
